I want to write a poem
but the sun ate my words
and all the butterflies
that would be flying by
crushed as caterpillars.
I have so much love
to give; so many words
caught in chrysalis.
There’s no telling
what will emerge.

“I’m not done changing.
I’m not ready yet, madame.
I’m not anything,
yet, really.”

I want to write a poem
but love won’t let me.
It’s too hot to fly;
too bright to lie.
The words,
the words,
the words;
they won’t come out.

I found them once
and held them
in my palm;
clutched them to
my thumping chest;
too tight
for too long.
They are gone again
and I’m too tired
to retrace my steps.

I want to write a poem
but the beauty of some
is enough to stand alone.

They don’t need words
and sadly,
words are the best
I’ve ever had to offer.
They don’t need words.
They want them. Oh yes.
They want them. They do.
But they don’t need them.
They don’t need me
for that.
They don’t need my

I want to write a poem,
but the words won’t ever amount
to the sounds inside a heart.

written on 05/30/2016 by: Matt Kane